A Morning's Trist [Tristaan]

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Pre-Dawn

Touching. There was an awful lot of touching.

Sarinah focused almost too much on the instruction the grinning wick provided her, not shying away from his hands as he corrected her movements, desperately wishing her face didn’t feel quite as hot or that her heart didn’t race quite as fast. The hands were subtle, manageable, even the brush of his foot to fix her stance was okay. It was the leaning, the gentle guidance with his hip that was the part that the dancer could feel herself becoming flustered by. He was so close the brunette found herself almost shyly glancing from his guiding movements to his face, looking over the bow of his lips or the captivating steely grey of his eyes, before looking away with a smile.

As she turned into Tristaan, grinning and quite entirely delighted with herself, it wasn’t without being painfully aware of how his warmth wrapped around her. His laugh was infectious, and she giggled again as he shifted her elbow out of the way to lean closer still, the warmth of his breath tickling the curve of her ear. Sarinah held herself in check as a shiver ran up her spine, her smile faltering and lashes fluttering closed for just a moment, her breathing shallow almost in anticipation.

“Advanced moves?” She muttered distractedly, before the man’s sudden movement snapped her back to reality with a sound of surprise, unable to react or untangle herself as Tristaan spun and ultimately tripped her. He was taking her down, forcing her to the ground with a strange sort of gentleness that would never be given in a real situation. The dancer felt the panic in her chest, gripping desperately to the trust she’d said she had in him against the unwanted familiar position she found herself in. Instinctively, Sarinah raised her arms to protect her face, one leg curling up as he’d suggested, but all other instruction lost in the rushing that filled her ears.

I. Paid. For. You.

The words were near on four maw old, but they rang in her mind as though freshly screeched at her face. The dark haired dancer breathed heavily, tears springing to her eyes as the blurring between the past and present faded away, bringing her back to reality with an almost dizzying sensation. She blinked rapidly, trying to shove the emotions back into their box as she lowered her hands.

“Oh..oes. Kicking’s good. I…can we take a break kov?” The woman asked as she took his hand, turning away to compose herself with a shamefully awkward laugh, hair falling from it’s messy bun in a cascade of raven locks.

“Just need a pina manna to…uh…to catch my breath. Ye chen.” She rested her hands on her hips, wandering a bit away and taking a few deep breaths, lifting one hand to press the palm against her forehead and closing her eyes. Rolling her shoulders, she turned back to Tristaan with a wan smile.

“It ent good ne, but you just get used to it. Hawke seems reluctant to put anyone else on the job. Dze. Can’t blame them, who want’s to work at a tumble hut? Regardless of who ye are. No glory looking after broken chips.” Rubbing her arms as though warding off the cold, Sarinah bit her lip, before cursing deep tek, and laughing again.

“Alioe forgive me. Ye are a benny kov Tristaan, too benny to be wasting your morning with a woe-is-me chip that can’t keep herself together. I ent sure why ye care, I ent worth it. I ent worth this.” She gestured at him, before running her hands through her hair and resting her hands on her head, unable to hold the wick’s gaze for too long.

She had felt the warmth in her cheeks, the flutter of butterflies in the stomach and her heart had raced when his words had brushed the soft skin of her throat. There were thoughts there, lovely daydreams, but in the end that’s all they were. Pretty daydreams for a silly witch with a stupid crush. He’d blushed, she’d been enamoured by it previously, but then what did that even mean?

This was a mistake.

“I should go.” She said, looking at the floor between them but making no move to do so, as though her feet were unwilling to obey her head. Sarinah laughed again, making another awkward sound and grimacing a little.

“Ye make it easy to forget what’s waiting back home.” She admitted with a blush, looking up with a tilt of her head.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

"Ah—epaemo, Sarinah."

Tristaan knew well enough the look of fear when he saw it, and while he was used to forcing himself through things regardless of the price he paid, not everyone shared his reckless abandon. Too close to home, to the story she hadn't told, he guessed, watching her face as he helped her up and hearing the waver in her voice, but he didn't say it out loud, feeling far too guilty to say anything right away other than a quick apology. Stepping away to give her some space, he leaned his back against the spice crates and ran a calloused hands over his face, "Oes, we can jus' be done for now. It ent like I gotta teach y' everythin' I know in a day."

He offered a smile with his words, an invitation for more time, but it was brief, her words digging at sore places, picking at scabs of wounds that never healed. The dark haired passive let his steely gaze glance past her briefly, toward the docks and the ships for a moment, before coming back to her lovely face where she tried to hide her sadness with laughter. He knew how this all went too well, and for a loud, rough heartbeat or two, Tristaan did not have an answer or a response—what could he tell the witch that he couldn't tell himself?

"Y'ent broken, rosh. An' y' said yourself, y' ent a tumble. Hawke's not gonna pay more for somethin' he can replace for less. It's jus' th' way money works t' some folks. But that doesn't make it right, Sarinah. There's plenty o' folks who don't deserve t' be in th' places they're stuck at—"

—and some folks who deserved worse, who deserved nothing.

The dark-haired witch was not one of those people, however, not like he was. She had a field. She was born who she was meant to be, but she'd fallen into the wrong situation, she'd been trapped by unsavory people in her innocence. He'd been born broken and told the truth, abandoned by people who believed they were doing the right thing for everyone. She'd been lied to, told who she had to pretend to be. He'd been illuminated, told who he could never become. Her idea of broken was different, but it felt the same as far as he could tell. He watched her fingers in the attractive darkness of her hair, letting her words sink in with a sigh, narrow shoulders sagging,

"I ent that benny, an' I ent wasted anythin' on you." Tristaan's voice grew quiet, serious, letting her look away if only so that he didn't have to hold her gaze, either. Stepping toward her, he hesitated a step, "Ne, you're worth m' time—more 'n jus' m' time, but I ent got much else. N' one should be' told they're nothin' an' lied to. Everyone's somethin', somehow. So 're you."

Even he told himself that sometimes, but did he believe it? Did he really?

Most days, yes. Yes, he did.

If he didn't, if he hadn't, he wasn't sure where he'd be, but he clung desperately to the belief that he wasn't actually a nobody, that there was meaning for him somewhere in Vita, that he just had to fight his way through the ignorance and opposition in his path to find it, that if he just fought hard enough, endured enough, someone would have an answer, someone would say what he longed to hear. So fight he did. He just feared it was for nothing.

The lovely witch wasn't nothing. Nor was she just another broken nobody. She was someone and she wasn't property. That much he was sure of, though he didn't even know how to put it into words, not for himself and not for her.

"Then forget a lil' longer, Sarinah."

Tristaan's smile wasn't shy so much as sincere, calloused hands reaching for hers, wanting to tangle their fingers together again and keep her here, to keep her from having to go back there when he knew he couldn't, not really. Not yet. He wanted to figure this out, to find a solution. He didn't really have a why for her. The dark-haired passive couldn't tell her what one thing caught his attention or what made the kinship he felt with the lovely witch both comfortable and scary at the same time, "Look, take a walk with me 'r jus' sit an' talk with me somewhere. You're good company, an' I don't mean it in th' way everyone else does 'round you. I don't want t' buy your time, but I'll spend it gladly if you'll let me. For free."

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Pre-Dawn

She chewed the inside of her cheek as he spoke more kind words about her, about her situation, his shoulders sagging at her compliments. He was that good, even if the man didn’t realise it, Sarinah did. And she wanted him to know it. This handsome, kind, funny, enduring wick that had just effortlessly swooped in and made the darkness bright. Even if it was for a moment. He came closer, and she could feel her pulse rushing in her ears, unwilling this time to take her eyes from his face.

Just a moment more, she could admire him for just a moment more.

The grey eyed man sounded just as broken as herself as he continued, and the witch wanted to explore his past, give him as many lovely words and sentiments as he gave her. Her soul craved a friend, a companion. A friendly, unconditional shoulder to lean on. It was just so easy to talk to the wick, falling ridiculously into the steely depths of his honest eyes with a wistful soft sound on the very edge of her breath.

Then forget a lil' longer, Sarinah.

The dancer blinked, her cheeks darkening heavily as her name rumbled from the depths of his chest, sounding almost unfamiliar to her own ears. Tristaan smiled, and by Alioe it was as intoxicating as all the spirits behind the Queen’s well stocked bar. The man was admitting that this, whatever this enamourment she’d developed was, it wasn’t one sided. It was mutual.

Well then.

His hands calloused and scarred with years of hard work and harder beatings reached gently to take her own, and Sarinah smiled slowly as she allowed him to lace his fingers in hers. Sparks, that’s what it felt like, sparks from her fingertips tingling across her olive skin.

“Ye..uh...ye’re pretty decent company too Tristaan. Ent gotta pretend here, ye chen? Ye...ye’ve make it feel less hopeless...less lonely.” She breathed a nervous laugh, finding her courage to move a step closer to the hardened wick, looking down at their hands as she pressed her lips together.

“I’m sure I could manage that, spending time with ye. I mean, protecting my honor and all. That’s gotta count for something, oes?” Sarinah said softly, stroking a thumb over his hand as the butterflies danced in her stomach, feeling her heart stammer in her chest.

Vrunta.

“We could...uh...we could sit and talk. It’s nice, talking to ye. I mean, we could even tell each other our last names. For uh...for a start?” The blushing witch fumbled through awkwardly, painfully aware of just how close Tristaan was. Meeting steel with mahogany, she took a deeper breath, realising she’d been taking shallow inhales as they stood hand in hand. Her eyes skimmed over the imperfectly perfected lines of his face and the curve of his lips.

“Lissden. Sarinah Lissden. In case, ye know, ye ever had to ask for me by name somewhere. Like...I don’t know...the docks?” Her smile turned into a teasing grin, unable to resist as she tossed her head slightly to move brunette tresses from her face.

[Tristaanian Greymoore]

Bethas 8th, 2718

Tristaan couldn't help but enjoy he way she looked at him, the depths of her dark eyes rich and warm. The lovely witch was unquestionably pretty, especially not made up for the stage so much as just herself. Her smiling, blushing, olive-skinned self who was very distracting when she laughed and even more distracting when so close to his person. Sarinah let him take her hands in his and the thrill was tangible—a wave of warmth that tickled its way down his spine and was restless under his tanned skin—especially when she stepped closer. He was sure she could hear his heartbeat for a tick or two, just for a moment,

"Oes, th' Harbor 's one o' those places—full 'f opportunity an' yet dangerous. It can feel lonely. Sometimes it's hard t' tell who your friends are, ye chen? I feel like ye chen there, an' it's kinda benny t' be understood." Her thumb danced over his scarred knuckles and his smile widened, the fluttering feeling in his scarred chest both nervous and emboldened at the same time.

The lovely witch wasn't acting, wasn't playing a part on stage here by the docks in a warehouse full of spices from Mugroba and mind altering substances from only the gods knew where. Away from social expectations, away from prying eyes, away from employment obligations, maybe Sarinah found him as interesting and attractive as he found her. It was a strange feeling, and one the dark-haired passive tended to shy away from—casual curiosity and some shameless fun were not beneath him—but the quiet promise of a deeper connection whispered under the thrumming of his heartbeat, drawing him to consider their newly discovered friendship something more than just a collection of comforting familiarities.

His grey eyes strayed to her lips as she said honor, and Tristaan couldn't help but smirk, "Honor? Well, m'haps that word's a bit too kind for th' likes o' me. Protectin'? Oes. Honor? I guess. Ent many folks have honor 'round th' Harbor, but I try."

The dark-haired passive tugged on her hands once she suggested they sit and talk, leading them further inside the small warehouse to find somewhere to sit near the back wall, though he didn't sit right away, preferring to keep her close with their hands tangled, leaning his back against the wall. Sunlight filtered through the half-assed siding, catching dust and drawing thin lines on the wooden floor. Tristaan laughed when she asked for his last name,

"M' name's fancier than I am, that's for sure, Sarinah Lissden." He grinned when he used her full name and chuckled at her reasoning, "Junta. Tristaanian Greymoore's what I was born with, but ent many folks who call me anythin' but Tristaan."

He bit his lip, suddenly self-conscious at the use of his full name, achingly aware that it was rather fancy and not at all wick-like. Of course it was! Because he wasn't a wick, and he never would be, even if he could pretend a little, even if he could play the part. His steely gaze drifted from her face with the tightening of his chest, the anticipation of the lovely witch's observation and questioning, but he couldn't help but be drawn back to her grin and her rich, warm eyes.

The lithe dancer was all sorts of trouble. This all was a treacherous path to tread, for he felt the weighty tug of attraction, the way his head swam with the dark cascade of her hair or his heart fluttered at her laugh. It was an easy infatuation: their similar stories and her beauty kindling a desire for more that he both wanted and didn't want. She wasn't free and she wasn't his. Who she did belong to was clocking dangerous, and the passive already owed Hawke more than he seemed to be able to pay.

But there was something about her that made him not care about consequence, however, that made him not afraid. This whole moment was risky and that risk was more than just a little thrilling, and he felt a boldness in her presence he rarely felt elsewhere. It loosened his tongue and made his pulse sing in his veins, inviting words to spill from his lips without his usual shyness,

"I'm jus' gonna get it out o' th' way that you're macha, an' if circumstances permitted, I'd be alright about more'n friendly feelin's between us. I'm sayin' that here 'cause there's enough folks who've lied t' y' about too damn many things, an' I can't be one 'f 'em. So, with that, an' your smile 'cause o' my fancy name, I'll tell y' things I don't tell anyone else. You deserve th' truth 'f n' one else does, ye chen?"

Tristaan resisted the urge to wring his hands free from hers and walk away, the words that burned the back of his throat ones he couldn't remember the last time he said so directly,

"I ent a wick. I was born 'n Muffey a galdor. But when I failed th' golly magic test as a boch, my golly parents dumped me on th' streets like garbage. A factory in th' Soot District an' then th' Red Crow were my fami, wicks kinder than anyone'd ever been t' me my whole life."

The dark-haired man released her hands then and ran calloused palms over his face, curling fingers into his hair, grey eyes looking to the space between them instead of looking at her directly, unable to say all of his words with the same level of bravado as he'd hoped,

"Y' said no pretendin', so I want t' be plain with you, Sarinah: I'm a passive, but bein' a wick keeps me from slavery jus' like dancin' keeps y' from bein' jus' another tumble in th' Queen."

[Sarinah Lissden]

Bethas 8th, 2718 - Pre-Dawn

Following the wick to the back wall of the warehouse Sarinah felt almost giddy, allowing the grey eyed man to lean against the wall whilst she stood in front of him, threads of the morning sun catching the edges of her hair to catch the slight undertone of red that built the black of her tresses. A giggle escaped her as Tristaan used her entire name, it sounded nice in his voice, with the thick touch of his accent. She’d lost most of her tek flavour living in the Rose, now a shadow of what she had once been. It was refreshing to hear just a snippet of home talking with him.

As the scarred man finally revealed his full name, Sarinah tilted her head with a grin.
“Tristaanian Greymoore? Well if that ent a mouthful. Ye da and daoa a pina manna fancy then? Ye’sure you’re a Crow? Sounds more like a Deep Water name. They’re all like to think they’re fancy there.” She teased, her nose wrinkling a little as she nodded sagely.

“Tristaan is much easier, oes.” The dancer felt her mouth go dry as Tristaan bit his lip, her heart all a flutter as he looked away. By the Gods he was ever so lovely to watch, and privately her mind concocted delightful daydreams, of things that she had no past experiences to draw on. Still, she lived in a brothel, it wasn’t hard to imagine. Plus, she wasn’t entirely naieve. There had been childhood kisses stolen by eager teenage wicks behind kints at Surwood, but it had all come to an abrupt halt once she’d started at the Queen. There was no innocence there, just bought lies.

I'm jus' gonna get it out o' th' way that you're macha, an' if circumstances permitted, I'd be alright about more'n friendly feelin's between us.

Tristaan’s first few words brought a huge smile to her lips, the witch blushing again and glancing away with a modest humility. She’d been called beautiful before, many times. But not honestly, not from a place of care. It was wonderful, and only served to enflame her thoughts and feelings about the man. He continued, and for a moment the daydream waivered, her smile turning a little to a confused smirk.

“The truth? Alright balach, I’m listening.” She said softly, anticipating something about his line of work, or perhaps something about the evening in the Queen. Maybe he’d not been as gentlemanly as she’d thought. Doubtful, the brunette slept a light restless sleep, and the smallest touch or sound would have woken her.

I ent a wick. I was born ‘n Muffey a galdor.

He continued, a golly failing his magical testing and thrown to the wolves. She couldn’t, no she wouldn’t believe it. Tristaan was a wick, he spoke wick he looked wick. He was more wick than some of the wicks she’d known! He released her hands, lifting his own to his dark hair and staring at the floor between them. A passive, she knew the word. They were galdori parse, treated lower than low. Robin, the poor girl behind the bar, she was a passive. Never spoke to anyone, broken little thing that she was. But she didn’t pretend to be something she wasn’t. She didn’t..

He’d lied. Just like all the people in the Queen, he’d lied.

Sarinah snapped back from the man as though she’d been burnt, her pathetically weak field drawing protectively around herself and looking at him with a hurt frown.

“You’re a…you’re a golly?” She hissed the last word, fear and anger tinging her tone. Horrific flashes of her past burned brightly, and she closed her eyes to them, seeing the moments vividly against the backs of her eyelids anyway.

“Ye lied? Do the Crow know? Or did ye lie to them too?” Tears stung her eyes, and the dancer laughed harshly, nodding as though she’d finally found out the punchline to some fantastic joke.

“I thought ye were different. I thought you were one of us. I thought ye were like me. But ye ent. You’re just like all the rest.” It wasn’t true, but she couldn’t put aside the traumatic violence of her past. She remembered the agonizing sting of the galdori’s cruel magic and shuddered.

“Passive. Born from those bastard gollies. Ye ent a clocking wick. I…I gotta dust.” The brunette backed away from the man, hot tears falling on her cheeks in confusion and hurt. She needed to get away from the man, she needed to think. He’d opened up, and told her the truth of his heritage, a painful past so similar to her own, but in the moment the witch couldn’t shake her terrified stigma.

“Fotamos, jent.” Sarinah said angrily, turning to storm from the warehouse. Stupid, she was so clocking stupid. It was obvious, that name and the finer details of his features. Damn it, why was she so clocking blind. This is what she got for falling headfirst for the first kov that was nice to her, properly nice.

Mung girl.